The many pages of a self tortured existence, dwelling in each emotion, engulfed in each feeling-every let down a universe-crumbling tragedy. I'm too emotional they say--take too many things to heart. I let them built into crippling fears that release themselves into my dream turned nightmares. I try to be aware, to embrace them and spin them into healthy justifications that dissipate as water on hot pavement--painfully sizzling away to nothing. Nothing becomes my soul. A vast, desolate desert with 100 mpg windstorms, whipping cracks of lightning and deafening thunder. This is my place. I return here often when things go astray too far, when things spiral out and I am lost again. Where is it that I truly belong-where I can be endlessly happy? Salt marshes are my eyes, raw, red earth my face. The world keeps vibrating around me--you will never get there. It's all wrong but it's all for you. I've known the sensation of joy, like steamed milk with sugar over tea, coating me in a shroud of beauty, a cloak of warmth, a crown of sweetness. And yet something that I was so certain of, invested my entire knowing and being in, fell to shambles. The prognosis: it lacked a solid foundation. I am building, building on clouds-inklings of foresight rather than finding what is. Does that mean I'm a dreamer? Unrealistic? A fool? This must be why people play it safe, but I cannot live in this jaded planet, cannot succumb to the numbing of my over active feelings. I am this--a viewer, a believer, a lover, teeming with but one thing: hope.